


Flying Colours

by BrosleCub12



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arthur-centric, Fluff, Gen, Humour, Lovely Arthur, Professor-student friendship, creative writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'...Is it worth mentioning I’ve received three wedding invitations this year, all of them from incredibly grateful former students, and all of whom were marked highly at the end of the year because they <i>knew how to write sonnets?</i> Hello, Arthur,’ Douglas adds smoothly, which Arthur thinks is quite clever, if also rather mean, as it stops Professor Skip from replying and just leaves him speechless in the background. ‘Welcome to Judgement Day.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying Colours

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: This is actually me filling my own prompt from three years ago on the Cabin Pressure prompt meme, after a similar experience to what occurs with Arthur here happened to me in RL. The prompt was never filled and then I thought - well, why not just do it myself? It was enormous fun to write, although un-beta'ed, so am open to any constructive comments and feedback. This is only my third CP fanfic and the longest one I've written and completed thus far, so am feeling a little nervous after sitting on it for a time.
> 
> As per, I do not own Cabin Pressure and just remain grateful to John Finnemore for bringing such a wonderful show into the world.

 

*

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

Arthur sits on the very edge – the actual very edge – of his seat as he watches the nice lady behind the School of English reception desk look through stacks and stacks of papers, looking for his name, his work – his short story, which has been read and finally graded.

He’s one of the first ones here; Douglas had emailed him earlier to let him know that the students’ work was being returned (‘Try not to knock over any small animals as you rush up here, Arthur,’ as if Arthur would ever do such a thing) and Arthur suddenly felt as he had back when he had had his very first exam; he had been shaking so hard on that day that he hadn’t even been able to get the label off his waterbottle and Mum had had to do it for him (couldn’t understand why he had to do that; it wasn’t as though they were easy to write on and Arthur would never do that anyway. It’s wrong to cheat).

What will his grade be? he thinks yet again, just as he wondered all the way up to campus. Asking himself is no use, he doesn’t know and he won’t know until they give him the story back. He has no-one else to ask though, that’s the problem here.

He really hopes they give it back quickly.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

He wonders if his tutor liked it. If it was any good. He tried hard on it, he really, really did and the fact is, he’s already awful at essays; can’t do very well with those although that’s not really much of a surprise. He has to be good at _something_ and he can’t get marked for Crazy Golf, which is a shame, because Arthur’s pretty sure he’d get a very high mark if that were the case. But this is Creative Writing and sport doesn’t have anything to do with creative writing, well, unless you write a poem or a story about sport…which would be nice… Maybe he should have asked if he could have done that instead. Why didn’t he ask?

Suddenly a door bursts open and Professor Skip (not his real name, his real name is actually Martin Crieff, but it’s what he’s known as to Arthur privately and only in his head because of all the toy planes hanging above his desk that Martin hotly proclaims are ‘actually models, thankyou very much, Arthur’) and Professor Richardson spill out into the side corridor from their office (which for some reason neither of them want to share but have to) chatting and arguing and filling up the quiet.

‘ – Douglas, you can’t just tell them to spend the whole class writing each other sonnets!’ Professor Skip’s voice is high, almost panicked, rather like it was at the start of the year when he tried to greet Arthur’s class properly; they’re still not sure whether they should call him Martin or Marty or just Sir, ‘they need to learn the structure and the form and the rhythm of the lines as well, you can’t just – ‘

‘Martin, practice makes perfect,’ Professor Richardson – well, Douglas, really, considering that Arthur’s Mum knows him and has had him over to dinner (where they’ve argued and thrown lemons at each other), but it’s still odd to call him that when he’s in all his fancy professor clothes – waves the concerns aside. ‘And I find it’s a good way for freshers to make friends. Certainly beats your method of warming up the class: making them talk to the person next to them and learn three details about each other. Tell me, are you bored with it yet, or does the sweaty awkwardness in the room mumble for itself?’

Skip – sorry, Martin - splutters.

‘It’s a perfectly valid ice-breaking exercise – ‘

‘Yes and unlike my methods, it doesn’t result in wonderful spontaneous romances and liaisons once the seminar is over – is it worth mentioning I’ve received three wedding invitations this year, all of them from incredibly grateful former students, and all of whom were marked highly at the end of the year because they _knew how to write sonnets?_ Hello, Arthur,’ Douglas adds smoothly, which Arthur thinks is quite clever, if also rather mean, as it stops Professor Skip from replying and just leaves him speechless in the background. ‘Welcome to Judgement Day.’

‘Ah, here we are,’ smiles the nice receptionist then, her voice adding to the general… _voiciness_ going on all sides and bringing Arthur out of his thoughts (because what’s Judgement Day? Is he supposed to wear a costume?). She’s holding up several sheets of clipped paper: Arthur’s story.

‘Just a sec, Douglas.’ Arthur finds a smile for the professors – it feels wrong on his face, but he has to try - and pulls himself up to his feet, wonders why his chest suddenly feels like someone’s wrapped his heart in one of those corset things that women use to make themselves look slimmer; walks towards the desk, reaches out for his story, just remembers not to snatch.

Then he takes a breath – he’s not sure why, but apparently that’s supposed to help –– and then looks down at the special cover sheet stapled to the front, to the bottom left-hand corner where the tutor has scribbled his grade.

 _95_.

Arthur blinks. Looks again. Checks there’s not a dot between the numbers that would only mean nine-and-a-half.

No, there isn’t.

95 is… well, it’s not 100, is it, but it’s _close_ to a 100 and he’s pretty sure 100 is the biggest number you can get with this, but…is that good?

‘Douglas,’ he finds himself saying, because Douglas will know – realises his voice sounds funny, feels funny right inside his throat, like when he’s ill, but he’s not ill now, is he; it’s just his voice suddenly won’t seem to come out right, ‘Douglas,’ he manages again; realises they’re both looking at him with funny expressions on their faces. Is it worry? Arthur’s not sure. His Mum keeps saying she’ll send him to a people-reading course as a present for his next birthday, but Arthur’s not sure what that means. It actually might be helpful now, he thinks, as he looks between Douglas and Skip.

‘Sorry,’ he says and finds he has to swallow, because it suddenly feels like there’s some kind of cork in his throat – he can’t imagine why, he’s never swallowed a cork in his life and he holds the paper out towards them because he’s not sure what to say – if he can even talk.

The silence that follows, even though it only lasts five seconds (Arthur counts) seems longer. Douglas raises his eyebrows; Skip blinks.

‘Good Lord,’ Douglas says, in that low voice that he only ever seems to have when he’s surprised or impressed but just doesn’t want to admit it. That’s what Mum says it is, anyway. Skip continues to blink at the page, peers closer. Maybe he needs glasses like Mum sometimes does for reading (although Arthur’s learnt not to mention them).

‘It’s a 95, Arthur,’ Douglas says finally, calmly, looking up and meeting his gaze.

‘I know,’ says Arthur, because he does. ‘But… is that good or bad?’ Because he doesn’t know _that._

‘Arthur, it means you got a first.’ Skip, for some reason, sounds as though he’s being strangled.

Arthur blinks again.

‘That’s… number one,’ he says – or thinks he says it. His tongue suddenly feels odd, a bit like when he ate strawberries when he wasn’t supposed to. But he hasn’t had any strawberries for ages, has he? He’s not allowed to have them, so he doesn’t think so.

‘Arthur,’ Douglas’s voice is low, final. ‘It means you passed. With flying colours.’

A first.

_you passed_

A first. A first, which all the really clever students aim for and talk about getting.

_You PASSED_

… A _first._

_Flying colours._

‘HOORAY!’ he bellows and before either Douglas or Skip can get away – and he can’t imagine they would want to – he pulls both of them into a massive double hug.

‘Thankyou!’ he cries, the only word he knows right now, ‘thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!’ He’s never had a first before, never, ever, ever and he worked really, really hard on this story, and he never, ever would have done this without Douglas and Skip’s help.

He kisses both their foreheads enthusiastically, the same way his Mum kisses his head when he’s got something right (which isn’t often, he knows – but wait ‘till he tells her!) and they both jerk away and he realises he’s probably holding them too tightly. He doesn’t want to hurt them – especially after they’ve both been so kind – so he quickly lets them both go; Skip falls against the wall and Douglas rubs his neck.

‘Sorry,’ Arthur winces, momentarily guilty. ‘But – a _first!’_

He bounces into one of the soft chairs that are kept in the reception area, feeling as though he could jump on them (although he won’t, because he’s not sure his shoes are clean and it wouldn’t be polite). Then he busies himself with the comments left on the front page by Mr. Atesee (‘Call me Carl’) who is a really nice guy but for some reason is hardly ever around and only really talks to people through email:

‘…Lovely children’s story…’ (strange, Arthur didn’t write it as a children’s story, but then he supposes anyone can read it, it’s not like it’s rude at all) ‘clear use of Aristotle’s narrative theory’ (Arthur doesn’t think he knows anyone called Aristotle, but if he’s happy with the story as well then that’s brilliant) ‘…slight overuse of the word _brilliant_ but then it adds to the general positivity. A unique, entertaining story; well done!’

Arthur beams and hugs the story to his chest; his story with a first. Suddenly, he feels really, really, really smart – and who knows, maybe he could be almost as smart as Douglas!

‘Yes…well,’ Douglas clears his throat when Arthur mentions this to him. ‘I think we ought to celebrate with a drink. Apple juice or pineapple juice, gentlemen?’

*

‘I’ve never got a first before,’ Arthur cheers as he sits in the third, slightly old, very worn, but still very comfy big chair in Skip and Douglas’s shared office (the office that they hate sharing and Arthur doesn’t quite get _why_ they hate sharing so much, because they’re both brilliant, but there it is), ‘Dad said I’d be lucky if I got a third.’

Douglas and Skip both exchange a look when he says that – they think Arthur doesn’t notice, but he does. People exchange looks without talking for all sorts of reasons, at least it seems like that when Arthur’s around. Even Arthur’s Mum does it.

He focuses on admiring Martin’s latest model airplane, hanging from the ceiling on his side of the office (a lot of the other students make comments, but Arthur thinks it’s brilliant) before glancing over at the latest painting on Douglas’s side, along with the clever-looking books and the expensive decanter that looks like it’s holding scotch or brandy, but which is actually full of diluted apple-juice and which Arthur is sworn to secrecy about, or his white Toblerone stash will be no more.

(A lot of Douglas’ stuff has come over with him from the big clever-sounding university he was at before, something with a big, clever-sounding name; when Arthur asked his Mum why Douglas was no longer at that university, she rolled her eyes and said it was best not to ask).

‘Well,’ Douglas hands around drinks, ‘a toast to you, Arthur. To your very first first.’ He holds his glass out. ‘Cheers.’ They clink glasses together and Arthur gapes up at Douglas, can’t help himself.

‘How did you know it was my first?’ Honestly, Douglas just keeps on surprising him!

‘Oh, just a wild stab in the dark,’ Douglas shrugs, and takes a sip, smacks his lips. ‘Ah, that’s the fabricated stuff. Anyway, well done, Arthur.’

He seems to mean it as well; he’s regarding Arthur with a gaze that seems nice and warm – it’s better than the ones his Dad throws his way, anyway, which often end up making Arthur feel as though he can’t look him in the eye, no matter how much he tries to.

Hm. That reminds him.

‘Maybe I should tell Dad,’ he says, the words seeming to spill before he’s quite ready for them. Because… well. He should, really. He imagines revealing to his Dad that he’s actually got something right for a change, that he’s actually got a high mark for the first time since school – and that actually, it means that it _hasn’t_ been a waste of time and money after all, doesn’t it?

He looks at his watch and then up at the clock, before staring over at the large map that Martin and Douglas keep pinned to the wall - one of the few things they agree on - with the whole wide world spread out over it. Realises he can’t work out the time-difference because a) he can’t quite remember where Dad is at the moment and b) he can’t do it, full-stop.

‘Maybe you should wait until you’ve spoken to Carolyn,’ Martin sounds as though he’s being very, very careful and Arthur understands, he does. But then he thinks, again, about telling his Dad that he got something right.

(Dad had scoffed when Arthur had said he wanted to study Creative Writing, the alternative being helping on his Dad’s plane as a test-run steward, which his Dad had refused to let him do anyway, in case he ‘made an idiot of us both, son, you know what it’s like.’ He hadn’t stopped Arthur doing it – Mum had asked Arthur if that was what he really wanted, if he wanted to study how to write properly and he _had,_ because what could be more brilliant than learning to write a story? – but Dad had said he supposed it was too much to hope that Arthur might find something more practical.

 _You won’t let me on your plane, though,_ Arthur had thought, but hadn’t dared to say).

He pulls out his phone and presses on his father’s caller ID, holds it to his ear. He’s supposed to be happy, he tries to keep that in mind, but he suddenly feels as though his tummy is going _flip-flop, flip-flop_ now. Maybe he should –

And then he hears his father’s voice, all gravelly and just a little sharp, _‘Hello, this is Gordon Shappey – ’_

‘Hi, Dad – ’ Arthur manages, but then the voice continues, robotic and un-present, with _‘ – not around right now, but if you’d please leave a message and I’ll – ’_

Arthur hangs up.

‘I’ll send him a text,’ he decides instead; that way, he won’t be disturbing Dad…wherever he is and Dad can read the text when he has a moment free. That’s right, isn’t it; that’s smart thinking – he’s got a first now, so he can’t be completely stupid after all. No matter what Dad says.

Skip and Douglas are both silent as Arthur fires off the text: _Hi, Dad! It’s me, Arthur! Just to let you know I got a First for the story I told you about, which means I passed. I hope you’re having fun. Maybe I’ll be able to see you this summer. Arthur. Xxx._ Clicking send, Arthur thinks again about what his Dad might say, even though he remembers all the other things his Dad said when Arthur managed to get into university in the first place and… none of it was very nice.

‘You should be proud of yourself, Arthur,’ Douglas says then, his voice, jovial and friendly, like shortbread and tea, gently bumping into Arthur’s thought processes like a nice chap squeezing through a busy crowd with a polite ‘Excuse me,’ and Arthur finds a smile for him even as he thinks: well, yes, he is, if he thinks about it! He’s proud of himself and he’s proud of Douglas and he’s proud of Martin – he’s even proud of the family dog Snoopadoop at this point!

(He wonders if Dad will be proud of him. He hopes he will. It would be nice).

And anyway, Douglas is brilliant, he makes the students (and occasionally Martin, and very, very, _very_ occasionally Arthur’s Mum) laugh, even if he and Martin complain and grumble about having to share an office. After all, because Mr Atesee never seems to be around, it was Skip and Douglas who ended up taking Arthur into their office at the start of the year when he just couldn’t understand any of what he was reading, or what it was about, because of all the big fancy words that felt as though they were jumping right over his head. It was Douglas who gave him another apple juice and spoke calmly and quietly whenever he was tired and couldn’t think of a clever way to write his essays and feeling generally not-brilliant and maybe a little bit tearful, in all the ways that he was trying, really, really hard, not to be a clot. It was Skip who told him all about planes – he’s brilliant with stuff like that, he seems to know everything, even more so than Arthur’s own Dad and Skip isn’t even a pilot! – and even, now and then asked Arthur to help him assemble another little aeroplane (‘models, Arthur, not toys,’). And it’s weird, but Arthur found he could remember everything Martin was explaining about his homework, if they happened to be building a plane _while_ Martin was explaining it – rather like a jigsaw puzzle. And Skip even forgave him when he got glue all over the wall…and the floor… and the blinds…

As the year went on, the two Professors, between them, had come up with various games and spot-checks to help Arthur understand his tasks; apple-tossing while discussing that week’s assigned reading, for example (who’d have thought there would be so much to read about writing?) or lemons hidden around the place with important facts stuck on in Post-it notes, for Arthur to find. And a small Toblerone chocolate (secreted in Douglas’s fridge) with one lovely triangle offered up every time he got something right! And if he got it wrong the first time – which he sometimes... often... did – well. He managed to get it right eventually. And Douglas got through quite a few Toblerones, in the end; in any case, Arthur found that, for once, his brain was just about to keep up with what was going on.

‘Interesting that you, erm… kept the bit about the fridge in, Arthur,’ Martin is reading through the story again now, frowning at the pages as though there’s something missing. Maybe he doesn’t understand it.

‘I would never have thought to write about otters if you hadn’t given me the idea,’ Arthur tells him cheerfully and Martin hums, says nothing – but it’s true (although to be fair, it was Arthur’s idea that the otters should talk in the first place). Douglas had told him lots of interesting otter facts and Martin obviously knows a lot about aeroplanes meaning he could have an aeroplane in the story and he had even once driven Arthur to the woods in his brilliant van so that Arthur could get a proper idea of what it would be like for an animal to live there, so he could do Research (even though Skip had said, several times in fact, that there was no way that an otter would be living there of all places. Still, it was nice to pretend; that’s what stories are for!).

‘How about lunch?’ Douglas suggests and Arthur looks up at that; now he thinks about it, he’s very hungry. He suddenly found he couldn’t eat once he knew his story was being returned, but now: yes, he’s very happy and very hungry and he would really, really like lunch.

*

‘Arthur,’ Mum sounds… quite stunned, which is funny for her. ‘That’s… well. That’s splendid news, dear.’

Arthur preens under his mother’s praise and takes another sip of his milkshake. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He taps the table in glee with his free hand, phone in the other, ‘it means I can get my degree now, Mum and it means I can tell people that I’m not all that stupid after all, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ his Mum agrees in that high voice that she only takes on when she’s in a certain kind of mood, as though she’s not quite sure what she means to say, ‘it certainly does.’

‘I told Dad,’ Arthur adds then; doesn’t feel that’s the kind of thing he can go without telling her. ‘Is… is that alright?’

The slightest pause. ‘And what did your father have to say?’

Arthur takes the phone away from his ear and checks his notifications. Nothing and he tells his mother as much.

‘At least not yet,’ he adds, ‘I expect he’s busy.’

‘Yes,’ his mother says again, but this time it’s said in a way that Arthur thinks is quite tight, as though his Mum is snipping off a thread with scissors. He knows what that means – knows his Mum doesn’t like talking about Dad – so he changes the subject and asks how Snoopadoop is instead. They talk for a few more minutes and then his Mum tells him she has to get on.

‘I might get some profiteroles for tonight,’ she tells him and Arthur wants to whoop with joy: he loves those. ‘And… Arthur. Just so you know, this is very pleasing for me to hear. I am… very glad that you’ve got such a good mark, my dear. And very, very proud. Well done, darling.’

Arthur beams; his Mum’s voice sounds full of something nice, something that comes on a good day when she’s won ten pounds in the lottery or given Snoopadoop a bath or scored one off Hercules Shipwright, whom she seems to see a lot of even if all they do is bicker. He likes that his First has made her voice sound like that, because until recently – until Dad left – it had sounded… not full. Thin and unhappy.

‘And thank those two gormless idiots for me as well, won’t you?’

‘Mum!’ Arthur scolds; he knows very well who his Mum means, but still… Martin and Douglas – Professors Crieff and Richardson – aren’t idiots at all! They’re _Professors,_ so they can’t be!

He says goodbye and turns back to his lunch, smiling at Martin. They’re sitting in the student bar and there’s people all around them, celebrating their results; a few of them have waved to Arthur and even asked him to join them, which is lovely, but he’s quite happy sitting where he is. Douglas is at the bar, chatting and laughing with a pretty lady whom Arthur vaguely recognises from the Tai Chi society and Arthur is on his second banana milkshake, which he really, really loves. Martin, though, is only picking at his food; he’s only eaten half his baguette and Arthur can feel a little snip in his happiness, because now, _Martin_ doesn’t look happy.

Professor Crieff, he reminds himself firmly. They might be his friends, but they are his professors as well. Even if Martin can’t be all that much older than him. In any case, Martin – Professor Crieff – fetches up a smile that’s far too false and nods.

‘Yes, fine,’ he says in that speedy way, ‘fine! fine. Fine,’ he nods again and goes back to looking at his baguette.

Now, Arthur isn’t stupid. Not completely. He may not know everything, but he knows Douglas pretty well and he knows Martin pretty well and he knows Martin only says ‘fine’ several times when he’s not and is trying extra-hard to persuade others that he is, like he’s trying to cover himself with a blanket full of holes. Arthur’s not stupid; not that much. He’s got a first, so he can’t be.

‘Are you feeling tired, Sk- Professor?’ he asks, ‘because when Mum is thinking really hard about something, she gets tired, you know. I get tired, when I’m trying to think.’

Martin gives a small hum, a small half-smile.

‘I suppose. Sorry, Arthur,’ he adds, straightening up suddenly, as though snapping out of Something. ‘Congratulations, in any case, my young prodigy of creative literature. You must be very pleased.’

Arthur nods and smiles; he _is_ pleased, but something about Professor Skip isn’t and he taps his fingers on the table as he wonders how best to approach the subject.

‘I am. And it’s because you helped me,’ he beams up at his professor friend. ‘Who knows, Sk – Martin, maybe, one day, I’ll be able to become a professor like you! Professor Teacher Sir Arthur Shappey!’

‘Hm, well – you can always have my job,’ Martin mutters and Arthur’s ears perk up at that, because of how Martin sounds when he says it.

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, I don’t know, Arthur,’ Martin sighs suddenly and it’s as though he’s a deflated balloon, all of a sudden; as though all the air has gone out of him and left him a tiny little thing with absolutely no air, ‘I’m just… wondering if this teaching lark is any good for me. Or rather, if I’m any good at _it.’_ He huffs and looks away at Douglas, still chatting up the Tai Chi lady at the bar. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Professor…’ Arthur tilts his head to the side before following his friend’s gaze towards the way Douglas is laughing freely at the bar with the lady, all confidence and… confident-type things. (He really needs to look up some more big words in the dictionary: he’s got a First now, he can’t let the side down! Or this Aristotle fellow). Then he looks at Martin, who isn’t laughing and doesn’t, in fact, look or sound very confident at all.

Hm. Well.

‘You know… Douglas is great,’ is what he decides on, ‘but you know… you are as well, Martin. You wouldn’t be a Professor if you weren’t great at it, would you?’

At that, Martin laughs. It’s not a nice laugh, either, Arthur isn’t happy to notice. It sounds like the noise you get when you tap on the outside of something hollow; almost empty.

‘What? A part-time professor who only just scraped my doctorate? Who shares my office with someone who was ‘let go’ from Oxford? Who always has to check that my class are still paying attention because it looks like half of them have fallen asleep in their seats during the lectures? I’ve been here a year and a half, Arthur and… well… sometimes it seems that no-one ever understands what I’m saying.’

‘I do,’ Arthur counters. ‘Well, most of the time, but – that’s only because I’m me and I can be a bit slow. But Skip, like you say, you’ve only been here a year and a half and – that’s not very long, is it? Not as long as Douglas and don’t forget, he is a bit older than you. And anyway,’ he plunges on, ‘Skipper, you helped me get a first. You can’t be bad at teaching if you helped me do that. I wouldn’t have known anything about otters or fridges or how planes fly… or – or anything, if you hadn’t helped me try and work things out. At least I got through everything and Dad said I wouldn't.’

Martin pauses at that, looks up at Arthur with a furrowed brow, opens his mouth, closes it again.

‘Well – yes - but. Well. Douglas helped too.’

‘Well, yeah,’ Arthur agrees, ‘but then you _both_ helped me, right? I mean, Douglas helped me on some things and you helped me on others. And you know, Martin…’ he adds, leaning forwards so that he can confide his secret to him, ‘I actually based the character of Skipper the pilot-otter-captain on you.’

There is what Arthur’s Mum would call a very heavy pause. At least it feels heavy to Arthur. Martin seems to have frozen in his seat; he looks a little like the latest Sherlock Holmes does on the telly when he’s caught off guard about something.

‘Cause of all the planes in your office,’ Arthur explains, ‘and you do look a bit like an otter, you know,’ he keeps talking over the sudden squeak that Martin is making, has to explain quickly, because this is important, ‘but in a good way, you’ve got sleek hair and bright eyes and the same kind of face – but it’s a nice face, Martin!’ he adds quickly, ‘it’s all… expressive and otters have really expressive faces! So that’s good! And Skipper is like you in that he knows all about planes and he knows what he’s doing to fly all the other otters to safety! And again, that’s kind of like you, because I thought I was going to fail and because of this first, I won’t.’ He beams up at the professor.

‘Oh,’ Martin manages. ‘Oh,’ he says again; apparently lost for words and it makes Arthur giggle – and Martin being a Creative Writing professor! It’s really very funny if you think about it.

‘Well,’ Martin clears his throat finally. ‘Thanks. I think.’

‘You’re welcome!’ Arthur grins. Perhaps he’ll start calling Martin the Skipper for real. He could be a good captain of an aeroplane, if he tried. He wonders if he should bring that up sometime, if Martin decides he doesn’t want to be a professor anymore. It would be a shame though – as Arthur says, he’s good at that too.

‘Suppose it… wasn’t _too_ bad, was it?’ Martin asks finally and Arthur nods eagerly.

‘You were amazing, Skip - Professor!’ It’s a close one and before he can be interrupted and because Skip – Professor – _Martin –_ is staring at him as though he’s grown two heads, which isn’t actually all that unusual, but Arthur has things to say, so he ploughs on, ‘You were really clever and really nice and you made me feel like I could do this, even when I was having trouble with, you know, all the learning stuff. I didn’t realise I’d have to read textbooks on creative writing as well; I just thought I’d be writing lots of stories. But I’ve got through it and it’s like that feeling when you scale a tricky cliff, or you land a plane on only one engine… you breathe a sigh of relief because it’s over. And that’s how I feel right now!’ he beams at his professor, ‘because you know lots of stuff about creative writing and about planes and about writing about planes and that helped, Sk- Martin, it helped me do my best here. Really,’ he adds as an afterthought, even as he stops for breath. Wow, creative writing really does put a lot of words in your head, doesn’t it?

Martin smiles then; a small smile, but still, the kind Arthur likes to see. Martin – Professor Crieff – always seems to be worrying about something or other and it can’t be much fun.

‘Well. Thanks. Thankyou, Arthur,’ he says finally and Arthur smiles back, opens his mouth to say something else but then Douglas returns with a ‘How are we doing, chaps?’ and sits down between them.

‘Any luck?’ Martin asks, nodding towards the pretty lady whom he was chatting up; Douglas shrugs his shoulders.

‘No, it would appear that the mysterious coffee-beans are calling me in greater demand today. So, Martin, Arthur,’ he picks up the remainder of his coffee and toasts them both; Arthur lifts up his almost empty glass in response, ‘who’s up for a round of Classical Novels that sound more interesting with the final letter knocked off?’

‘Oh, knock it off, Douglas,’ Martin says, but his face twitches, as though he wants to hide a smile.

‘Certainly, that’s precisely what I’m proposing. Come on then, I’ll start…’

They play the game over the rest of their lunch and although Arthur just sits and listens and smiles and although his Dad doesn’t text back, it’s really very nice. And every now and then – just a bit – Arthur snakes his hand back down to his story and his precious first and wonderful words of praise on the paper.

 _Flying colours,_ he thinks, Douglas’s words in his head, over and over, clear as day, tinged with pride. Flying colours.

(Maybe, he thinks, one day, if he’s really, really lucky – he’ll really be able to fly).

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I had to adapt an already existing game from the show. Trying to think of a new one was HARD.


End file.
